


leave that, i like it

by mishcollin



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Gift Giving, M/M, Mutual Pining, One Shot, POV Merlin (Merlin), basically arthur's a sugar daddy and merlin's a stubborn peasant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-02-19
Packaged: 2019-10-31 10:51:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17848079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mishcollin/pseuds/mishcollin
Summary: It starts out with a scarf.





	leave that, i like it

**Author's Note:**

> I know this concept has probably been beaten to death in Merlin fandom, but I saw _The Favourite_ this weekend and couldn’t resist a little homage to it. No actual plot events were inspired by it, just the concept of favourites. (Titles are also from _The Favourite_ , and I had way too much fun with them.)
> 
> Thank you to my betas: my favorite demon, Sophie, and my British dictionary, Charlotte.

**i.**

**what**

**an**

**outfit**

It starts out with a scarf.

A nice scarf, all things considered. Certainly nicer than Merlin’s other scarves. For a moment, Merlin just stares at it dumbfounded, folded neatly on his shoddy mattress where it surely doesn’t belong. He experimentally picks it up and runs his fingers through the fabric.

 _Certainly_ nicer than anything he owns, or would want to own, for that matter.

There’s no note.

“Gaius,” he calls, still turning the scarf over in his hands. “Who’s this from?

“I couldn’t say,” Gaius’ voice floats back. “A footman dropped it off earlier this afternoon and said it was for you.”

“I think there’s been some kind of mistake,” Merlin says, setting the scarf back down.

“Or perhaps you have a secret admirer,” Gaius replies, which is somehow more absurd an idea than wearing a garment worth more than all his belongings put together.

“ _That’ll_ be the day,” Merlin says, then folds up the scarf and tucks it in his cupboard, putting it out of mind.

—

Until the next day, that is.

“Where’s the neckerchief?” is the first thing Arthur asks when Merlin shows up to work that morning, ten minutes late. Arthur’s already half-dressed and has a hand propped on his desk, golden hair aflame like a torch in the morning sunlight. Merlin resolutely ignores this detail.

“The —” Realisation hits him like a cobblestone to the head. “That was from _you?_ ”

“Who else did you think it was from?” Arthur says, then makes a show of adopting a queasy expression. “Actually, I’d rather not know.”

“But —” Merlin’s mouth falls open, then snaps shut again, then repeats the motion a few more times.

“Stop gaping like a dumbstruck fish,” Arthur says, glaring at him. “You look ridiculous.”

“ _Why?_ ” Merlin says. While Arthur’s a gift-giver with plenty of people, he certainly hasn’t ever been where Merlin’s involved.

“It’s not from me personally,” Arthur says in a rush, then scowls and starts fidgeting with a row of quills on the desk. As if he’s ever cared about anything in his room being in alignment, Merlin notes with an air of incredulity. “Consider it a token of good will from the court.”

“Okay, well. While I appreciate the…erm….gesture —” This earns him a dangerous look from Arthur. “Sorry, the, er — uncharacteristic thoughtfulness — I don’t see what’s wrong with my regular scarves.”

Arthur scoffs. “The maids could wash dishes with your regular scarves, and it would improve their look significantly.”

“Thank you,” Merlin says. “That still doesn’t answer my question. You’ve never cared about what I looked like before.”

“I wasn’t the king before,” Arthur retorts, and what a king he appears, Merlin thinks sardonically, with his bed hair rumpled and his undershirt askew and his possessions strewn about, even though Merlin just cleaned the place himself yesterday afternoon.

“Are you saying you’re ashamed of me?” Merlin says, rather pleased by the thought. “If anything, that’s another reason to reject the scarf.”

“If you don’t like it —” Arthur snaps, then appears to rein himself in. He goes back to organising the quills. “Actually, I don’t care what you like. I’m the king, you’re the servant, and you’ll wear what I tell you to.”

“Oh,” Merlin begins, with mock reverence. “Yes, of course, I’m _sorry,_ sire. I should know better than to ignore advice on my appearance from someone who can’t dress himself on a good day.”

Arthur lobs a quill at him with frightening accuracy, and Merlin dodges it with weary expertise.

“You know, most servants would enjoy getting expensive things from their masters,” Arthur says, looking very put out now, then is quick to add, “ _Not_ that it was from me, personally.”

“I’m not most servants,” Merlin answers, and takes that as his cue to leave.

—

The gifts don’t stop. There’s a scarf for every day of the week, always by a footman at the same time, and never a note to accompany them.

“This is getting ridiculous,” Merlin complains on the sixth day. “I’ve told Arthur I’m not going to wear them.”

“Mm,” Gaius says with his nose in a book, having long tired of the scarf debacle.

“I should start burning them,” Merlin says decisively, and thinks that, at least, will be the end of it.

Except it doesn’t stop with the scarves.

Next are the breeches, and then the collection of boots, and then the array of custom-fit, highly expensive jackets.

“This is absolutely, stark-raving mad,” Merlin fumes to Gwen one morning over the well after two weeks of this. “I haven’t even touched any of it, and he keeps sending them to me. What’s he trying to do, make me look like a complete fool?”

Gwen gazes at him and bites her lip, considering. “Or he could just be…I don’t know, he could just be acting nice?”

Merlin laughs, then says, “Oh, you were serious.”

“I don’t know where the change of heart came from,” Gwen says, resting a placating hand on his shoulder, “but I really don’t think there’s any mockery or ill will in it, Merlin.”

Merlin sighs, blackly thinking about casting all of those shiny new boots down the well.

“Although if he starts bringing you armour and swords and such, keep me in mind, will you?” Gwen asks with a small, mischievous grin—ever the blacksmith at heart.

“You’re more than welcome to take whatever you want,” Merlin says. “Believe me, I’m going to get rid of all of it.”

—

The next _preposterous,_ absolutely outrageous suggestion comes later that morning, and it actually causes Merlin to drop the bucket of water he’s holding, sloshing it everywhere.

“There’s no end to your gifts, is there?” Arthur asks, keeping his eyes trained purposely on the spill spreading across the floor.

“You can’t be serious,” Merlin says, very much worked up and fully prepared to start a diatribe about it. “I am _perfectly_ content living with Gaius, and that besides, he needs me.”

“For God’s sake, you’d think I’d committed murder with the way you carry on,” Arthur says, folding his arms with an exasperated expression. “There are far worse offences than being offered larger quarters with more amenities, so if you could, please stop looking at me like I kicked your favourite cat.”

“I don’t _need_ larger quarters,” Merlin hisses, kicking the bucket for effect. Arthur raises an eyebrow at this, surely just to make sure Merlin’s well aware what he thinks of the display. “And I don’t need new scarves, or boots, or — or armour, or _cats_ , or whatever the hell else you’re trying to foist off on me!”

“Nobody said anything about you in armour,” Arthur says, appearing slightly concerned for the first time. “God forbid.”

“You’re an ass,” Merlin informs him. “And a prat, and I’m sure you’re doing all of this just to vex me.”

Arthur rolls his eyes heavenward and casts his hands up. “Yes, I’ve gone to this colossal amount of effort just to make you look like a fool, something you do easily on your own and free of charge.”

Merlin regards him suspiciously. “Why _are_ you doing this?”

“I’ve told you,” Arthur says, avoiding his eyes in order to fix the cuffs on his jacket. “You’re the king’s servant now, and your appearance and living situation should reflect that.”

“This seems far more about you than it is about me, then.”

“You really are thick, aren’t you?” Arthur snaps, his voice arch with irritation for the first time, and Merlin shoots back, “That’s rich, coming from you!” successfully closing off any attempts of riddling out what the hell Arthur meant by that particular remark.

Merlin’s still stewing about the ordeal later, which of course gets channeled directly to Gaius.

“He wants me to _move in_ to bigger quarters that are closer to his _chambers_ ,” Merlin tirades, wearing a hole in the floor with his pacing. “What, so he can shout at me all hours of the day rather than just the regular ones?”

“Merlin,” Gaius says, mildly. “Stop being dramatic and eat your soup.”

—

**ii.**

**this**

**mud**

**stinks**

They’re out on patrol with a group of knights when Merlin gains some clarity into the situation, although not from a source he expected.

Arthur had, of course, gotten his boots caked with smelly mud during the day’s hunt, leaving Merlin to scrub them clean with a dirty pail of river water while four or five knights around the fire lounge back and relax, talking and drinking cheap ale out of metal cups. Arthur is off somewhere in his tent, leaving Merlin to complain to Leon alone and at length in front of the fire.

At one point, a speculative look crosses Leon’s face, which Merlin barely catches thanks to his focus on Arthur’s boots.

“Are you aware of what Arthur’s intentions are, Merlin?” he asks, tone rich with meaning.

“Making a public arse of me?” Merlin suggests, scrubbing the boots with much more aggression.

Leon chuffs out a short, surprised laugh. “Hardly,” he says. He pauses then, long enough for Merlin to stop what he’s doing and look up suspiciously.

“Merlin,” Leon says, “do you know what a _favourite_ is?”

Merlin makes a scoffing noise in his throat even as he feels the tips of his ears go red with heat. He suddenly feels every gaze around the campfire on him.

“I’m aware,” he says, also very aware that his heart is beating twice as fast at Leon’s implications. “It’s a courtesan for the king, right?”

Leon smiles, not unkindly. “Not exactly. Well.” He pauses, frowns. “I guess it can be, depending.”

Merlin stays quiet. He’s been around far too much court gossip to not know what the general understanding of the term is.

“It’s a servant the king treats above all others,” Leon says. “Someone he keeps closer than anyone. Special duties, privileges...benefits.”

“You’re not seriously suggesting —” Merlin begins, setting down the scrubbing brush.

“Why not?” Leon returns evenly. “You more or less already hold the position, just without the court status or the material goods. If anything, Arthur is trying to provide the best for you. He means to see you formally rewarded for your service.”

A few suggestive titters ripple around the gathered group of knights, and Merlin tries to ignore them. His face is very hot, and he wishes this conversation were far more private.

“I can’t be Arthur’s favourite,” Merlin says. “Everyone will think I’m his — his, you know, paramour.”

“Everyone already thinks that,” Leon points out — again, not unkindly, but the snickers that circle around the fire this time are much more pronounced.

Merlin swallows, avoiding Leon’s gaze to keep from giving anything away that he hasn’t already. It seems ludicrously unfair, somehow, that there are rumours of an amorous nature about him and Arthur when the reality would never live up.

“Well, I’m not interested in status or material goods,” Merlin says, loudly enough to be heard by everyone in earshot. He doesn’t want to give anyone the wrong idea — his duty _is_ protecting Arthur, after all, even if it’s from the bawdiness of young knights. “So I’ll keep with my regular duties, thank you.”

“Merlin,” Leon says, lowering his voice so they can’t be as easily overheard. “I’m not trying to persuade you either way, but it’s really just a title. You already behave as a favourite would, and Arthur already treats you as such.”

Merlin begins to protest, but Leon continues, “It’s none of my business, especially if the king hasn’t approached you about it directly, but — I thought you should know that that’s likely what’s happening.” His gaze is sincere. “Friend to friend.”

Merlin swallows his intended response and manages, “Thanks, Leon,” instead, and Leon gives him a friendly pat on the shoulder before shoving off his stoop with a jangle of chainmail.

Merlin briefly allows his gaze to skip around the group still adjourned, and he locks eyes with a knight sat across from him — Sir Alymere, who he hardly knows at all. Sir Alymere’s beady eyes are trained closely on him, with the keenness of a hawk, and there’s an unsettling quality about his stare that gives Merlin a little jump. There’s something calculating there, shrewd.

“Alright, men,” Arthur says, and Merlin starts badly at the sudden sound of his voice so close. “Enough gossiping. Get some rest.”

The knights dissemble with low mutters, dumping their ale out in nearby dirt or draining it to the dregs as they stand. Merlin remains in place, feeling Arthur near and not wanting to move.

“You too, Merlin,” Arthur says more quietly, and then he hesitates a moment, and then there’s the sound of him moving away, off toward his tent.

Merlin slowly lets out the breath he’d been holding.

Surely Arthur can’t mean as Leon says he does. Arthur can be painfully oblivious, but he’s far from stupid. He would know as well as Merlin does the connotations of the title — perhaps even better, as a royal. Still, Merlin can’t stop thinking about it, even as he tries to fall asleep, of what it would mean. Surely an esteemed position, one that would let everyone know of his and Arthur’s closeness, couldn’t be a bad thing. In fact, it feels like something Merlin’s dreamed of, to be held in such high regard by Arthur, even without his magic being known.

The scarves and the coats and the pomp and circumstance are all ostentatious beyond reason, granted. Merlin had grown up on a farm in a village of 30, after all, living ration to ration in scraps his mother had hand-sewn for him. He could do without all of the gaudiness.

 _Arthur_ , though. Being closer to Arthur, being regarded as something closer to an equal. That surely wouldn’t be so bad.

Maybe there’s something to it after all, Merlin thinks, reflecting on what both Gwen and Leon had said. Maybe he’s gotten this whole situation backwards, and Arthur’s not being an ass after all.

The possibilities of this keep him up long into the night, tossing and turning, thinking of how it would feel to _actually_ be Arthur’s courtesan, or at least presumed as such by the court. Arthur surely couldn’t — he surely wouldn’t — he couldn’t mean _that_? What if he did? What if they could?

Finally, he falls asleep, and his dreams are far from peaceful.

—

**iii.**

**a**

**minor**

**hitch**

“Good morning, sire,” Merlin says when he enters Arthur’s chambers two mornings later, and is startled to find Arthur already awake — not only awake, but dressed — and not only dressed, but visibly fuming. Visibly fuming, and pinpointed directly at him.

“Is it?” Arthur says, the words clipped out through his teeth. His arms are folded tightly across his chest; beyond angry, something has clearly upset him, down to the core, and Merlin is flummoxed by it at once.

“Arthur?” he asks, dropping the load of laundry and stepping forward in instant concern. “Is something wrong?”

“You tell me,” Arthur says with a curl of his lip. “You see, I’m not sure how it can be a good morning when you’re apparently so _miserable_ in my service. Or so I’ve been told.”

It feels as though Merlin’s got walloped in the back of the head. “What? Where did you hear that?”

“Sir Alymere made me the most interesting proposition this morning,” Arthur says as he begins to pace, his arms locked behind his back. His shoulders are taut as a bowstring. “He heard you talking over camp a few nights ago — quite a _few_ did, actually — something about _rejecting_ my _advances._ He wanted to know if this meant that you were interested in seeking other work, and was more than willing to offer himself in my stead.”

Merlin, who had already been feeling ill, feels dread harden into a cold, hard knot at the base of his throat. “Arthur, no _._ I can explain —”

“ _Can_ you?” Arthur says, in a sudden and loud burst; and there it is, the genuine emotion again, eclipsed by bluster and anger. “Because I’m having a _really_ difficult time understanding how exactly you’ve been made to be so miserable through a few scarves.”

“It wasn’t that,” Merlin rushes to say, “or any of that, really — Leon said something about favourites,and I didn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea — I was trying to, I don’t know —”

At the word “favourite,” Arthur swings to a halt in his steps and rotates to stare at Merlin directly, his eyes narrowed.

“I’m not unhappy working for you, really,” Merlin says, his words tumbling together in his earnestness. “I promise, it’s just a misunderstan—”

“Oh, I’m so glad you’re not unhappy,” Arthur bites out, throwing up one hand. “It’s such a _relief_ to know you haven’t been rotting away on my behalf.”

“It has nothing to do with you,” Merlin says, fighting the urge to wring his hands. He feels like he’s going mad with the need to let Arthur know how wrong he’s gotten this. “I just wasn’t interested in — in the gifts, not at first, but really, all that’s fine, even —”

“Yes, you’re not interested in anything from me, are you,” Arthur snaps, then clenches his jaw, his cheeks going pink.

Merlin stares. “What? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” Arthur says, suddenly looking very weary; he pinches the bridge of his nose, hiding his eyes. “Leave me.”

“Arthur,” Merlin insists.

“Now. Someone else will assume your duties for the day until I have this sorted out.”

Merlin feels the knot slide up in his throat, a bright pressure behind his eyes. He bows stiffly and turns to leave.

—

As Merlin paces back in his own chambers, each step makes it more and more clear what a colossal idiot he’s been.

The gifts — he’d as good as rejected them, hadn’t he? He’d as good as rejected Arthur — rejected him in _what,_ he’s not entirely sure, but he can’t shake the profound sensation of loss, like he’s given up something he hadn’t even realised had been offered to him.

Merlin runs his hands through his hair and grips at the roots, tugging and squeezing his eyes shut.

“Stupid,” he mutters. “Stupid, stupid, _stupid_.”

He wanted Arthur more than anything else on this sodding earth, and of course, he’d gone and mucked it up by hurting Arthur’s pride in possibly the worst and most public way.

Merlin opens his eyes, and they fall on the stack of scarves, piled high in the corner of his room, gathering dust. His gaze flits then to the jacket, still hanging unworn on the doorframe, the golden buttons starting to film over from a lack of polishing — and an idea occurs to him.

Without thinking about it twice, he grabs the jacket and is out the door like a shot.

“Oi!” Gaius calls after him. “Where are you going?”

“Out for a bit,” Merlin replies over his shoulder. “I have a few favours to call in.”

—

**iv.**

**leave**

**that,**

**i**

**like**

**it**

It’s nighttime by the time Merlin makes his way back to Arthur’s chambers, a few errands and several hours later. His heart hammering, he smoothes his hair over and knocks on the door a few times. He knows Arthur will know, just by the knock, that it’s him.

For a moment, there’s nothing but silence, then Arthur’s voice says, “Enter.”

Merlin takes a deep breath and opens the door. Arthur’s sprawled in his armchair next to the fire, and he’s got one leg cocked up over the arm and a goblet of red wine in hand. Another servant must have come in to light the fireplace, Merlin thinks. Arthur’s wearing a paper-thin, white V-neck and a simple pair of breeches, and he’s barefoot. The firelight touches all the edges of his features to gold, and Merlin feels his heart give a soft, helpless stutter at the sight of him.

Arthur’s nostrils flare slightly when Merlin comes into view, but otherwise he just scowls across the room, unmoving.

“I thought we could talk,” Merlin says quietly, closing the door behind him, and Arthur holds his tense position before he sighs and sets down the wine with a clank.

Arthur gets to his feet and crosses the room, his eyes narrowing to slits, before he gives a grudging nod. “You’re wearing the scarf.”

“Yeah,” Merlin says, tilting his chin up. “I like it.”

Arthur stops a few feet in front of him and surveys him from head to toe, and Merlin feels a tingle start in the tips of his fingers.

“It looks good on you,” Arthur says, then adds, with a martyred sigh, “I knew it would.”

“And the jacket,” Merlin adds softly; it’s styled similarly to most of Arthur’s waistcoats, but with a crucial addition, one that Arthur apparently hasn’t yet noticed.

Arthur takes a step closer to him, bringing bonfire heat with him, and Merlin gives a shaky exhale.

“I had Gwen redo the buttons,” Merlin says, tracking Arthur’s expression nervously. Arthur takes a step closer to examine them, so Merlin has the privilege of watching Arthur’s eyes darken with something that Merlin can’t quite recognise, but whatever it is sends some feral shiver through him, curling his toes.

Gwen had emblazoned the Pendragon crest on each button, at Merlin’s request. He stands very still as Arthur reaches out to examine the handiwork.

“It’s well done,” Arthur admits, and his voice has dropped a notch deeper, a slight rasp there now that wasn’t there before — that Merlin isn’t sure he’s ever heard.

“I wanted — I _needed_ you to know,” Merlin says, dropping his voice in turn, “that I belong to you, and no one else. In whatever capacity you want me, or will have me.”

Arthur’s eyes snap to his and flare wide, the bonfire heat crackling between them at a fever pitch, Arthur’s hand still on the lapel of Merlin’s jacket. Merlin holds his gaze, unwavering — certain to the death about this, at least.

Arthur drops his eyes to Merlin’s mouth, then he swallows, then he says, more unsteadily than before, “You — are the _worst_ manservant I’ve ever met, and the fact that I even want you as a favourite is just completely and _utterly_ baffling —”

“Favourite,” Merlin repeats, savouring the mouthfeel of it in a way he hadn’t appreciated before. “Does this mean you actually like me then?”

“Too much to do me any kind of good,” Arthur says darkly, his hand tangling in Merlin’s scarf to reel him close, the other moving to curl in his hair as he kisses him, and the bonfire heat pops behind Merlin’s eyes like comets — it’s _brilliant,_ the closest thing he’s felt to magic in his life, want singing through every nerve in his body.

Merlin’s hands explore of their own accord; he already knows Arthur’s body intimately, but not _this_ way, never before like this, and Arthur’s hardly wearing anything all as he walks him back until they hit the bedpost, just the thin shirt and breeches, and Merlin’s — Merlin’s wearing far too many clothes for this.

Arthur must think so too, because his hands push at the shoulders of Merlin’s jacket until it slides off, crumpling to the floor.

“Does this mean you don’t like the jacket?” Merlin asks, his voice far too reedy in his breathlessness, but he has no idea how he’s supposed to focus on any coherence at all when Arthur’s thigh is between his legs, when his breath is damp and hot against the bridge of Merlin’s shoulder.

Arthur’s teeth scrape against his skin, a light but unmistakable bite, and Merlin almost buckles, weak at the knees.

“The buttons were a nice touch,” Arthur says, and Merlin’s gratified to hear his voice is equally wrecked, both of them gasping for breath.

“Thought you might like them.”

“I assume this means I can keep sending you gifts,” Arthur says, and his hands, sliding up under Merlin’s tunic, suddenly make refusal an impossible idea.

“Anything you want,” Merlin murmurs without thinking, chasing Arthur’s mouth, so he easily feels the smirk that follows these words.

“Never thought I’d see the day that I’d find _you_ so pliant,” Arthur says smugly, the words so close they’re a hum, and this shakes Merlin back to his senses enough to realise he’s being played like a damn fiddle — so he grips Arthur fast by the shoulders, so unexpected that Arthur gives a startled hiccup of a gasp — and throws him directly and forcefully into bed.

Arthur’s eyes are wild, his hips bucking up to meet Merlin’s when Merlin leans over him.

“Oh, not a chance,” Merlin says, skating his mouth across Arthur’s bottom lip with a light, teasing pressure, and is properly smug when Arthur pursues it.

Merlin makes a motion to remove the scarf, and Arthur’s sword-callused fingers flit to his wrist to stop him.

“Wait, leave it on.” At Merlin’s incredulous look, Arthur smirks, the colour in his cheeks high. “I like it.”

“Fine,” Merlin says, filing that away for later study, and he leans to press a kiss to Arthur’s neck, sinking lower, lower.

“Merlin,” Arthur breathes, dazed, his hands anchoring on Merlin’s hips. “What the hell am I supposed to do with you?”

“Well, for starters,” Merlin says, smiling wide, “I can think of a few better uses for this scarf.”


End file.
